I was innocent when the cell door slammed, but no one cared; the paperwork said “felony theft” and the world believed the ink. Four years later, I stood in the yard of the house they’d bought with my dead father’s money, watching my sister extend a thick white envelope like a bribe at a funeral. She wore my father’s watch, the same one he’d promised would be mine, ticking smugly on her wrist. A FOR SALE sign leaned crooked in the lawn, the grass around it worn to mud, and behind her shoulder idled a gray sedan I’d seen too many times to call coincidence. Somewhere between the forged deed, the man in the car, and the way she wouldn’t quite meet my eyes, I understood they hadn’t just stolen my company—they’d stolen my li… Continues…
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